Blue Sunday
by his-little-troll
Summary: Sherlock shatters. (Sherlolly)
1. Chapter 1

**Blue Sunday**

Sherlock was not ok. He strutted around the room with tense shoulders. Mumbles filtered through his doorway, nonsensical rambling about cases and murders and killers. The smell of tea wafted to through his vents. He hadn't noticed her yet. This more than anything bothered her.

"Sherlock?" He continued his pacing, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She saw it, barely concealed beneath the deductions and racing thoughts. The Great Sherlock Holmes was shattering.

"Not now, Molly." The order was quiet, hissed against teeth.

"Sherlock, Mycroft is waiting on you downstairs." She stood strong, trying not to crumble under his narrowed glare.

"Mycroft can piss off." Louder, angry. Usually she understands the animosity between them but not today. Not right now.

"Your family needs you right now." He turned wild eyes on her, nostrils flared. He crossed the room in three quick strides. He towered over her and for the first time she feared him. The realization dawned visibly on him and he leapt back, as if the knowledge scalded.

"I don't want to go." The confession stopped her stumbling backwards steps.

"Sherlock, it's not about what you want to do." The space between them is too great to close smoothly. "We went to your funeral."

He didn't cry as he walked out, back straight and black suit impeccable. She pretended not to hear the tremor in his voice. "Not quite the same, was it?"

The ceremony was tasteful. Mycroft had held nothing back to a reasonable degree. Flowers wreathed the stone. Red rimmed his eyes. Neither brother moved from their pew or spoke while the verses were read or the few speeches were given. John and Mary sat solemn faced. She felt distinctly out of place here. Molly wasn't even sure why she'd been invited. She hadn't known Sherlock's mother, after all. They'd never been introduced.

Sherlock was not present after the funeral. The moment the speeches were over he had vanished. Worry invaded her thoughts and she could not concentrate on whatever it was Mycroft muttered about. She knew his hiding places. And she knew where he'd go if he wasn't hiding. Sherlock was grieving. Armed with that information she headed first to his hole.

She found him with a sinking in her stomach. His slick black suit stuck out sharply against the grunge, curls tangled in fingers. He had just finished, a red ring circling the exposed upper arm. He was well practiced, no mess and only one entrance wound. Blue eyes hid behind fluttered lids as she struggled to lift him.

"I'm sure this is exactly what your mother would have wanted, Sherlock." He sags against her, his long legs dragging across the tattered mattress she'd wrestled him from.

"Doesn't matter now, does it?" His voice slurred in her ear, his breath rotten as it heated her cheek.

"It does." Writhing bodies around them keep her focused on the door. Someone grips her ankle, an inappropriate comment calling for her heel to crush the gripping hand. Her burden chuckles beside her, but the sound only makes her sick.

Baker Street will be no good. Mycroft and John and Mary all wait for him to return, expecting no doubt for him to be at least as put together as he'd been at the funeral. Angry as he made her, she couldn't subject him to more. So it was her flat she pulled him into, her couch he slept on, and her couch he woke up on with eyes still dilated and words still slurred.

She brewed tea, set up a dinner if he'd want it (she knew he wouldn't, but keeping busy helped.)

"Molly." It was an order dressed up as a request. Despite her mixed anger she felt the tug of sympathy pull her all the way to his side. The tea rippled in the glass as she brought it to him. He ignored it.

"Never again." She whispers it to him, his arm wrapped around her knees. He was always grabby when he was high.

"What?" She could almost pretend he was half asleep if not for the dull light still in his eyes. Sherlock's brain never stopped. Not even when under the heavy weight of heroin was she safe from his scrutiny. "You're angry with me?"

"Of course I'm angry with you Sherlock. You will never do this again, do you understand me?"

"Of course not, John'd be mad." A slim arm crosses over his face, a deep frown pressing his lips.

"And what, I wouldn't?"

"I didn't know you'd follow me." His arm slings away, bright blue shocking her. "Don't follow me anymore Molly."


	2. Chapter 2

**Blue Sunday**

Sherlock wasn't in her flat when she woke up the next morning. He didn't show up for another month. John informed her his phone calls had been ignored. Mycroft assumed Sherlock was 'throwing a fit' and would be back on his own. Lestrade was too busy to look for him. So she worried, day in and day out, between corpses and questions. _Don't follow me anymore Molly._ He had refused to talk after that until she shuffled to bed, leaving him staring on the couch. When she'd disappeared in the darkness of her room his voice raised in quiet song. He probably thought she couldn't hear.

The days wore on and finally others joined her in worry. Occasional wondering down streets she'd rather never tread lead nowhere. More than once a hand grazed her arm or a leering smile called out 'doctor. One particularly insistent man had slithered up beside her and insisted he needed a nurse. Her cold assessment and passing "I only work with dead men," made him back off quickly. Eventually she caught Mary on a similar mission, though she'd gone further to dressing the part. They glanced knowingly before they both slid into the night, disappearing back into their safe worlds.

It was her greatest surprise when she came home one day, exhausted from a day of death decisions, that her flop onto her bed was impeded by a large lump. He smelled like week old sweat and cigarette smoke. His mumbled against her neck, his arm stretching across her waist from under her gathered plaid sheets. Relief and anger flooded her stomach, her flailing arms punctuated by indistinguishable yelling. Finally she managed to pull herself from the bed, a bleary eyed Sherlock looking offended at her hasty retreat.

"Sherlock Holmes what have you done to yourself?!" His blood crusted on his face and hands, the coat slightly damp.

"Case." He didn't look at her. His eyes were sunken, his face slack.

"Don't lie to me."

"How do you know?" He was trying to sound biting and bitter, but his tone was too empty.

"My father sounded like that just before he died. No matter how big the smile on his face, he couldn't ever muster the—" He often reminded her of her father. The thought made her sad.

"I'm not your father. Always comparing me to your father."

"Once is not always, Sherlock." She leaned over her bed, not as relieved to find him lying there as she'd always thought. She runs her fingers through his hair, ignores his scowl. "Are you high again, or just tired?"

"Last hit was two days ago."

He's too tired, too drained for it to be natural. He doesn't move away from her. He doesn't push her hand away. He's staring at her, challenging her to continue. Jaw jutted out, blue demanding her attention like a petulant child, refusing to fess up to some wrongdoing. Curls smoothed under her palm, nicks and clumps of dirt catching against her hand. Tears pricked against her eyes. The tide was useless to fight. They spilled, tracking down her cheeks and dripping onto his jacket. He looked alarmed for only a second.

"I apologize, Molly Hooper, for barging in like this." He moved to stand, but her fist in his hair rooted him.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you leave you will not be allowed back in." Her voice shook, her stuffy nose making her sound comical.

"You don't mean that, my Molly." His eyes are narrowed, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

She didn't. "Of course I do. You can't just show up here when you're high." He studies her in the dim light of her room.

"You don't mean that."

"I do." Voice small, tears still falling, even she wouldn't have believed herself.

"No." A soft touch runs along her forearm, fingertips resting against her thundering pulse. "I know you don't mean it."

She folds, crumbling into his chest. It didn't matter what he smelled like or what he had done. She breathed easier in his presence. Even if she stuttered and blushed, when it counted he helped her breathe.

"Don't scare me anymore."

He doesn't hold her, just keeps his grip against her pulse. The thump of his heart sounds against her ear, slowing, evening. The rise and fall of his chest told her he'd fallen asleep long before she leaned up, her wrist still held tightly. He was too warm, his face pale and his jacket cold despite the burn of his skin.

She closed her eyes and pulled the sleeves with measured movement. He did not stir. She eyed her phone, considered. She had no choice.

"John. Yes, he's here. He's not well." The dreaded question, unavoidable. "I don't know. He said he wasn't. Look, it's important." He's surprised when she hears him mumbling 'why there?' under his breath. She assumes he didn't expect an answer.

The brief knock at her door was immediately followed by it bashing open, John fuming over her floor. His coat dripped, his hair wet. She noticed the dark and rain for the first time, the melancholy of a storm the most unsurprising thing that had happened that day.

"Sherlock bloody Holmes, wake up!" She stepped back at the loudness that cut through the still air of her flat.

Something was wrong about this. John stomped across the floor, Sherlock unmoving. He wasn't usually such a deep sleeper. Something terrible sunk into her. When Sherlock did not respond even to John's yanking of his coat, she felt the color drain from her face. Even John's lips turned white as Sherlock's head lolled back against her pillow.

"Dammit, Molly, please tell me this is some kind of prank." He checked for pulses, measured breathing. "He's alive. What happened?"

"He just showed up here, in my bed. He was here when I got home." John's expression turned confused for just a second before he slipped into the role of doctor.

A stethoscope of rattling breathing later, he leaned back with is eyes closed.

"This is severe. We've got to get him to a hospital. Pneumonia at least, I can't be sure what else without more equipment." Sherlock barely stirred as he was shoved into a cab.

Molly had always hated the stark white, sterile rooms that patients were shoved into. It reminded her too much of the morgue cooler. The thought was not welcome, but Sherlock's pale as death body crept through her mind anyway, staining her hope.


	3. Chapter 3

**Blue Sunday**

Sherlock was not dying. Molly had known he wouldn't, not when he'd spoken to her so recently as though nothing was wrong. But he was sick. Severely. The doctors hinted at there being more than physical illness to attribute to his exhaustion. John, as he had with the drugs, initially dismissed this possibility. At Mary's bitten lip, he looked aghast.

"You're implying the Great Sherlock Holmes has…" He glanced around the white walls. Sherlock's alert eyes stilled her nibbling. "That you're depressed?" John looked him over and despite herself, she wanted to shield Sherlock from the dawning realization on John's features.

"I assure you John, it's nothing of the sort." He did not move his gaze from her. The challenging dared her again. _Tell them Molly. _

"Even if it is, that is outside my field." The doctor with the clipboard was all but ignored. "You were severely undernourished and dehydrated when they brought you in. Blood work came back positive for opiates. I'm recommending rehab and—"

"No, doctor, that won't be necessary."

He attempts to stand, his feet slapping the ground too hard, his hands gripping the rail of his bed as she's sure his head spins. He's still dehydrated, still undernourished. John's face is red and scrunched. Sherlock pushes himself from the bed and before she can stop herself she's got her arm under his, supporting his weight against her. The thin fabric of his gown is so different from the thick coat that it takes her a moment to realize her arm touched his bare back.

"I wouldn't recommend—"

"I thought it was clear I didn't care what you recommended." She's pinned. She doesn't want to help him out the door, but she seems to have already volunteered herself. His feet move without her permission and now she's faced with moving with him or allowing him to fall on his face. Her steps are automatic mirrors of his.

"You need to sign a waiver." The doctor waves his clipboard, but Sherlock doesn't bother turning around. She wonders if she should tell him about his hospital gown. It wasn't exactly appropriate for walking the streets of London.

"No worries, John will be by in 4…" He paced his counting with his steps. "3… 2… 1." John rounded the corner. Sherlock's coat was slung over his arm. He fumed the entire jog to them.  
"Molly, what are you on about? You know he can't just walk out of here."

"He needs us, John." Sherlock stiffened against her. He stared at her again but did not say anything.

"Exactly, he needs us to be responsible. And he needs to go to rehab." She regretted what she was going to say next, was sorry before the words passed her lips.

"He's not your sister, John. Rehab won't fix him." John flushed, but did not give up.

"It certainly won't harm him."

"Yes it will."

"How do you know?"

"Isolation from the only people that matter to him, in a place where he could break out a least a dozen different ways, where they have a habit of prescribing sedatives to calm their patients? He'd be in trouble before we made it out of the building and he would just end up in one of our flats. Rehab will not fix him."

"He should at least try."

"Rehab won't fix him because he's not broken, John. He's hurt, but certainly not broken." Sherlock's gaze has changed. His eyebrows lower, his lids droop, his mouth grimaced. She has surprised him.

"I didn't mean…" The ex-soldier doctor flounders. Sherlock plucks the jacket from his arm, bows his head and sways as he swoops the sleeves onto his arm. She catches him right as he starts tilting too far. He shouldn't be out of that hospital bed. Twenty four hours of fluids and monitoring is the least he needs.

"Quite. If you need me I'll be at Molly's." Sherlock pauses, forcing her to pause. He can be so dramatic sometimes. "Don't need me for a bit, John. I'll not be… safe." She turns to him but his face is blank.

John doesn't say anything for the rest of their trek from the hospital. The first step into London is too bright. Too loud. She hesitates and he stumbles.

"Did I overstep?" The question is quiet.

"Yes. But it's ok. Why me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why me? Why'd you invite me to your mother's funeral? Why'd you show up in my home? Why'd you come to my," the words stuck in her throat. "Why'd you come to my bed?"

"You're the one who matters most, my Molly." She knows she's blushing brightly.

They enter a cab in silence. The tension carries to her door until she realizes she has to let him go to find her keys. To her surprise, he stands remarkably well. Once she moves to step into her flat, however, he clears his throat. She lifts an eyebrow but he leans on her regardless.

"Would you like something to eat?" She doesn't really care what he wants. He's getting food.

Maybe he senses that he doesn't have a choice because he doesn't object when a plate of eggs and leftover cheddar scones are dropped before him. A glass of water and the first dose of his prescription later he looked remarkably less pale but infinitely more tired. She hadn't thought it was possible.

"You need sleep." He leans into his chair, his food only half gone.

"Pick one, food or sleep Molly. I can't do both."

"You aren't fighting me on this?"

"Why would I fight you?"

"Why do you fight me?" His shoulders are already relaxed and she's half convinced he's fallen asleep.

"You are too much." She's not sure if she was supposed to hear it.

"Too much what?"

"Too much sentiment." She scowls again. "It's why you never notice."

"Never notice what?" He doesn't answer. She's not sure if his head propped against the chair is a sign that he's dozing or if he's just ignoring her. Regardless, she moves to help him up.

"I'm not hopeless. I can make it myself."

"Of course. I just practically carried you out of the hospital." She frowns at him again, but his eyes are still closed. "Remind me again, why did I do that against the doctor's wishes?"

"Sentiment." He grunts as she pulls him and forces him into bed. It takes too long for her to realize he's in hers and not the guest bed.

"I've got to go to work. Don't leave here, Sherlock. Not even for a case today." He's already asleep. She'd learned to recognize when he faked sleep long ago.


	4. Chapter 4

**Blue Sunday**

He's still asleep when she gets back. His plate of scones is still at the table, his prescription bottle still sitting open. He hasn't moved since she left. Even his position is the same.

For a brief moment she can't see the rise and fall of his chest, can't see the flutter of his lids in sleep. She rushes to him, pulls his arm up, feels the pulse in his arm. There are no new marks. She lets out a shaky sigh. He's fine.

"Sherlock?" He blinks. Opens his hand and flexes his wrist.

"Any particular reason you're making sure I'm still alive?"

"Eat. Drink. Do all those things normal people do, Sherlock."

"I'm not normal."

"Never said you were." She sits on her couch, resting her feet before she makes coffee. She shouldn't drink it at night, she knows. Her father used to tell her all the time.

Will she continue remembering her father if Sherlock stays here for long? At this moment they are so similar. Trying to pretend they are as they were. Trying to hide the raging hollowness whirring through their bones like a tornado destroying their soul. It is enough to leave her in the constant in-between of grief and joy of the heart.

"Shouldn't drink coffee this late. It'll keep you up."

"Says the man who just woke up."

The room is silent, the only sound the electric buzz in her kitchen. Shuffling steps distract her. He's heading to her cabinets. She hears the hiss of water in, the bubble of heat in the pot. He's making her coffee. Is he making it the way she likes it or him? Soon the smell tells her, he's made it too strong. For him.

"I've apparently got pneumonia. I'm sure I'll be back to sleep in no time."

Spine tingling observations crawl along her skin, his intent eyes leading. He's taking in the way her shoulder's sag, the way her hair is mussed, the way her scarf and sweater were chucked against the sofa cushion. He catches the hum of a sigh as she sips the cup he's handed her. She can feel all of these observations, knows the moment they're made. She's learned, since she first met him, the weight of his eyes against her. They are always against her.

"No worries, I'll be sleeping in the guest room this time."

She doesn't know why she says it. She has no idea where the words came from or where they're supposed to go, but she's sure out of her mouth was not their intended destination. "You can keep it. The bed I mean. I mean my bed. You can sleep in my bed." She blushes, his eye lifting, that slightest twitch of his lip upward. "I mean, without me in it. You can sleep in my bed and I'll take the guest room."

"Why?"

"You like it better." Toby runs across her feet. Sherlock scoffs at her, quieting the moment she glared at him. It still amazed her that she could do that.

"Why would that matter?"

"It's just tonight Sherlock. Besides, it's not like I'm really sacrificing. The guest bed is cleaner."

"Hm." He looks away, but not before she catches that gleam of strange emotion against his features.

They watch telly for an hour, neither of them really watching it but neither of them speaking to each other either. Sherlock would occasionally mutter under his breath. It was always some kind of grievance with the plot. After each comment he would glance at her, the same unreadable expression. Not until she's stood, kicking her shoes off and crossing the room, that she hears him clear his throat.

"How do you do it, Molly?" She doesn't know what he's asking.

"Do what? I mean, I don't mind—"

"Not the bed, not the kindness. Those are just part of you. How do you see it? How did you see it then, how did you see it now?" The tone is a rare one, she's only heard it twice before. It scares her, a pavlovian response from past trauma. She understands his question now.

"It's a darkness, Sherlock Holmes. It clings to the bits of you that no one sees. We only recognize it in each other. Those of us that are left behind from it, we know." He stares at her with a new look, equally as unreadable as before.

"We?" She pales. She revealed too much. No point in taking it back now.

"Yes, we."

Her guest room smells like new sheets and tastes like vanilla when she closes her eyes. It's too cold, too new. No one has ever stayed here and she can feel the emptiness in the walls. Hours after tossing and turning on the unyielding mattress she skulks into the living room and lays on her couch. Toby curls in the bend of her legs, and before she can properly ponder anything else she's asleep.

When she wakes the next morning it is to the smell of coffee and eggs. Humming, the same song from a month ago, slithers between her ears. It sounds hauntingly familiar, but she couldn't recognize it then and she can't recognize it now. She pulls herself up, eyes the brightness of her stove.

"Why are you cooking?"

"Why did you sleep on the couch?"

"Are we just going to continue not answering questions with anything but questions?" This game of theirs was frustrating.

"You answered my question last night." She blushes again, rubbing Toby's back as he attempted to lick her face.

"It was important." His raised eyebrows told her enough. She joins him, glancing around at her clean utensils. "Should you be this active right now?"

"Molly, it's scrambled eggs. It's hardly exciting." He shoves a good bit onto a plate and hands it to her. She notices his has much smaller portions.

"Trying to fatten me up then?" She pats her tummy, laughs, and then stops, mortified. "I mean, I was joking, I…" He watches her floundering with blatant amusement. "Thanks for breakfast, Sherlock."

"It was just a thank you, my Molly. It's not everyday someone gives up their bed for the sick."


	5. Chapter 5

**Blue Sunday**

He insists going on a case the next day, despite the fact he still appears haggard and worn and far too skinny from his time on the street. She has work, and so she can't stop him. She half expects him to return to Baker Street and continue on as they were. Attempts to concentrate on her work were only mildly successful. Even with three bodies confirmed to be murder, she had him in the back of her mind moving through London streets. They were all very open and shut cases anyway.

It was well after sun down when she finally returned home. A heavenly smell permeated her flat, something chocolate and sweet and decadent. Sherlock sat at her table, goggles and gloves on. He concentrated on a dropper with squinted eyes and straight back. Lines of cupcake brownies sat in front of him, each one slightly different textured and sized. She was at a loss for what experiment he could be doing with brownies, but she knew better than to eat one.

"This could be considered torture, you know. Waving chocolate in front of a woman and she can't eat a crumb." He raised his eyebrow at her, the dropper poised over his selected cupcake.

"I'm testing the saturated required at the perfect cooled moment to keep a highly delicate poison in the perfect amount and temperature to be effective without alerting the victim to its presence."

"Do I even want to know why?"

"Case. Client believes her husband was murdered at an office birthday party. It was ruled as a heart attack, but certain things don't match."

"Ah." She didn't really want to hear about another dead man. "I figured you'd be back in 221B with Mrs. Hudson."

"Mrs. Hudson is on holiday." He is back to counting the drops that fall on the chocolate tops.

"Have you been to see John?"

"No." He frowns, just barely noticeable.

"Have you talked to Lestrade?"

"I have the distinct impression you're trying to get rid of me, Molly." He lifts his head purposefully, peering at her with that same frown.

"No! No, it's not that. It's just… I kind of figured I was a last ditch effort here, you know. You figured everyone else would be mad at you or something."

"Hm." He continued his work. "Always underestimating." He didn't elaborate, but she knew what he was getting at. _The one that matters most._

"So, why do you not think she just soaked the brownie in poison after they got done cooling?"

"The type of poison used is heat sensitive and bitter. Not ideal in any situation."

"Hm. Maybe she administered it a different way?"

"The brownies make the most sense. The sweetness and processed cocoa would hide the bitter flavor, individualized portions would make singling him out easy without drawing attention, and he'd be unlikely to linger over the meal making for a quick and potent application."

"I see. Why such extensive research into this?"

"Bored. I am a graduate chemist, so this should be mildly interesting."

She was about to respond when someone knocked. She hadn't even had the chance to drink her coffee and already someone was vying for her company. The inward groan was not nearly as inward as she'd wanted. It was even worse when she was faced with a miffed looking John.

"Hello, John. What brings you by?" She tried to block the view of the kitchen, but proximity worked against her.

"I know he's in there Molly." He didn't force his way in but he might as well have with the look he gave her.

"Both of you behave nicely. I'm going for takeout." She didn't want to be privy to their issues. The two could be as bad as any lovers, or siblings. Depending on what drama they felt like that day. She wondered if Mary ever got jealous, then dismissed the thought. The woman wasn't intimidated by anything. Petty jealousy wouldn't even register.

She knew all Sherlock's favorite. He was a creature of habit, had been since she'd met him. He always got the same thing from every restaurant. He always went to the same places. Comforts, though he wouldn't admit it. That's what these familiar places and things were. Comforts.

So she returned with rice and sweet and sour chicken. The stare down between the two men wasn't quite over. The fully abandoned experiment told her that whatever talk transpired between the two had not gone well. What she hadn't expected was John's sharp turn towards her, the irritation plain in his face.

"Would you like to explain exactly how you think this is going to work?" Barely checked anger bubbled against the tone.

"What's going to work?"

"Letting him go on cases and experiment as if nothing has happened. Letting him stay here and use all your stuff. You're babying him like he's a child."

"No, I'm treating him like he an adult. And I'm behaving like a friend."

"I've seen what addiction does to people, Molly. It's not something that can be fixed with enough kind words."

"It's not something that can be fixed. It can be managed, John, but it can't be fixed."

"How would you know?" She thinned her lips, narrowed her eyes. He flushed, but did not back down.

"Not everything is black and white, John. I know that's the world you live in, where there are bad people and good people and yes and no. But I have always lived in a world of grays." She moves towards her door, pulling it open and waving him out. "Sherlock doesn't need to be fixed. But he does need help. He needs your help." John glared at her on his way out.

"Come by tomorrow. We'll talk more when you've a chance to calm down." She watched him leave. Mary didn't know he was here. Mary didn't live in a black and white either. She seemed to understand. When he was sufficiently down the road she closed the door and turned toward Sherlock, who was tossing his sweets in the bin.

"What was that about then?"

"John being melodramatic. Seems to think you've taken me in, or that I'm using you to hide from reality."

"How ridiculous."

"Quite." He turned again, eyeing the takeout. "I don't eat on cases."

"You do today."


	6. Chapter 6

**Blue Sunday**

When she awoke the next morning, it was on the couch. Toby stretched across her stomach, the sun shined in her living room. The telly still played from last night. She had fallen asleep talking to Sherlock about the several plot holes in Harry Potter (she'd defended it to the last) and all around had a wonderful night avoiding talking about John. It was to her great surprise to hear someone mumbling in her ear, to realize that her couch wasn't shaped right, and it smelled like cigarette smoke and sandalwood. It made heat curl in her belly just to imagine that what she thought was real was in fact real.

"Someone's awake." His voice is deep in her ear, deeper than usual.

"You didn't go to bed?"

"You fell asleep on top of me." She blushed crimson.

"I'm so sorry."

"For falling asleep on your couch in your living room watching your telly?" She blushed brighter. "Hardly something to apologize for."

"Didn't you get any sleep?"

"I don't sleep when I'm on a case."

"What case?" She's moves to get up but he holds her still. She thinks to object but doesn't. Coffee's not that important.

"Turns out it's much more interesting than I'd thought. The brownie was served to the wrong man."

"Ooh. Who was it supposed to be served to?" She felt him shift, felt his eyes on the top of her head.

"I don't know yet. Would you like to solve crimes today, Ms. Hooper?"

"What about work?"

"You don't work today, Molly. Don't forget who you're talking to." He says it with a smile.

"Just let me get dressed." She double-takes as she swears he makes an appreciative noise, but he's as unfazed as ever, staring at her wall with steepled fingers.

By the time she's back out he's ready to go, a bagel held out to her. This is all she's getting for breakfast then.

"We can stop and get coffee if you like." He must've seen her disappointment.

"Sherlock, why are you being nice?"

"Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?" Blue eyes glance at her inquisitively.

"Well, yes, but it's a bit weird from you. I mean, you're being actually nice, not just… Not mean." He leans down, kisses her forehead, making her eyes flutter shut.

"Another thank you, Molly Hooper. For believing I don't need to be fixed."

The overweight bald man they met for coffee made her nerves settle just a bit. Coffee had a purpose, to do with his case. That made more sense. The man before him was sweating, face pale and clearly very nervous. She saw Sherlock fiddle with his phone before he gave her a meaningful look that she sadly did not know the purpose of. He rolled his eyes, then mumbled an apology when she cut him a look.

The man's shaking seizure distracted her from their silent communication. Sherlock sprinted away, leaving her to deal with a victim she clearly had no idea how to handle. She turned his head and backed away, fumbling to pull her phone from her pocket. Before she could dial the ambulance she heard the siren.

Paramedics flooded the shop, but she was searching for Sherlock. They tried to ask her questions but she didn't have any answers. He had been drinking coffee with them, answered a couple of questions about the business party he'd been at a week ago, and then this. She didn't know what Sherlock expected her to tell them, but their reactions were not good when she explained that she didn't know where he had gone. He didn't look happy with her or them when he showed up as they wrapped up their questions, out of breath and red faced.

"Well, you took long enough to get here." He's wheezing. "You'll find Mrs. Roberts at the table, along with a vial that should have traces of the same kind of toxins present in this man's blood screen."

"How did you—"

"Mrs. Roberts was previously Mrs. Banner, and before that she was Mrs. Evans. She's a long history of husbands with heart problems. Unfortunately, at her husband's last business birthday bash, the cupcake labelled for her husband was taken by my client's husband instead. The mix up caused the death of one innocent man over another, and she had to finish the job." He paused, and she knew he enjoyed being dramatic even if he had just referenced the death of an innocent man. "Mrs. Natalie Roberts had every intention of running off with her husband's life insurance. She's built up quite a nest egg for herself overseas, I'd wager."

He hails a cab and she's silent long enough to replay the events in her head. "I don't understand. Why was I there?"  
"What do you mean?" He's quite pleased with himself, she can tell.

"I didn't do anything. I didn't even say anything. I didn't help at all."

"You helped for being there."

"Don't give me that. What was I there for?"

He turned and looked at her, but he didn't answer her until they'd exited the cabby and entered her home. He simply turned to her, eyes that same intense stare. She wondered if he was going to kiss her on the forehead again. Or the cheek this time. Maybe he'd just look at her and turn her to a puddle. She hadn't expected a soft kiss, a hesitant question. She is too shocked to answer.

"You were there to help me focus."

"Isn't that the opposite of focusing?" She winces. He blushes. They're both embarrassed.

"It's easier to focus with you, Molly. It's saved me more than once."

She smiles, reaches her hand to pull him down and he looks incredibly nervous. This is all around a situation she'd never thought she'd be in. Sherlock Holmes nervous about her. She kisses him, harder than his.

"Oh my God. What?"

John's voice makes them spring apart like they were fire.

"You and Molly? How did I not know? You and Molly?"

"Well, to be fair, it only just started." He is not consoled.


	7. Chapter 7

**Blue Sunday**

John's horror seemed out of place. Sure, he'd witnessed Sherlock and Molly kissing, but really it's not like they had been going anywhere with it. She didn't understand until someone else stepped through her door, tall and impeccable in a blue suit. His umbrella cane tapped against her cheap tile and she was struck with just how far removed Mycroft was from the world of the people.

"Hello, Mycroft. Nice to see you." Everything was obvious. From the bright red stain of her cheeks to Sherlock's own lowered gaze, everything was obvious. Why did he make her feel so ashamed to have kissed his brother? Why did he give them that withering look?

"Ms. Hooper, what a pleasure. I hear you've been taking care of my brother." He stressed care, as if there was more to it.

"Hardly. He's been taking care of himself. Just, here." She shakes off the unexplainable guilt and stares back at the imposing figure with equally unexplainable defiance. It was like a battle of politeness and small talk.

"I do hope he's not played any pity cards with you. He does so like to play games." He didn't look at Molly when he said this, but at Sherlock. His eyes had narrowed. "What is it we always say about games, Sherlock?"

"I'm not a child, Mycroft."

"Oh, dear no. You've just thrown a temper tantrum." Molly's mouth fell open. Mycroft of all people should understand… He continued on, and the heat of anger spread up her neck. "I'm sure Mummy would be glad to hear of all the mature behavior her son's exhibited."

"I'm sure she'd be glad to know you were as unaffected as ever." The remark bit, but not enough to hide the subtle mark of envy in his tone. Mycroft scrutinized the two of them, helping himself to her sofa.

"Of course I was affected Sherlock, but I handled it and moved on. That's what adults do. We don't try to impose on another Mummy figure and we certainly don't start snogging the pathologist."

"Mycroft Holmes!" John and Sherlock both leapt at him, but it was her cutting voice that resonated through the kitchen. "You are in my home and you will respect me and Sherlock. I don't care what issues you've had, you will not invalidate his ability to grieve his mother because it is not like yours. You will not undermine his attempt at a relationship by reducing it to a temper tantrum. You will not disguise the genius and brilliance that is Sherlock Holmes by dressing him up as a child. If you utter one more word out of line, you will be asked to leave." John mouthed like a fish, no words forming. Sherlock simply stood there, face blank as Mycroft turned sharply on his heel and walked out the door.

His last comment was casually thrown behind him, a final taunt. "Don't forget Sherlock. Caring is a chemical defect found on the losing side."

"No, you pompous asshat! It's not about sides!" She had enough. The final declaration was screamed into the street as he slid smugly into his car, her screen rattling as she slammed the door behind her.

Sherlock gave her the most peculiar look before collapsing against the couch.

"Your brother can really be an arse, you know." John's previous shock had worn off, and now he stood looking befuddled in the middle of her kitchen.

"He did say we were arch enemies." Sherlock steepled his fingers in his usual way, signaling he was disconnecting from their conversation. What could he possibly need to do in his mind palace now?

"Is he always like that, Mycroft?"

John sat, thinking it over. "You know, I don't even pretend to know what Mycroft is. He claims to care for Sherlock."

"Ornery way to show it, don't you think?" She glared at her door, attempted to force her irritation to follow the suited man to whatever castle he had built for himself.

"They're brothers. Brothers can be pretty horrible." Molly wondered if she could stare at John hard enough to make him realize what he was excusing.

"You realize Sherlock's mum just died a little over a month ago, right?" John nodded, head pointed to the floor. "No one should be able to move on that quickly. When my dad died, I was a wreck for a year." Even now, a painful knot formed in her throat. "And you never really get over it."

"Grief doesn't excuse turning to drugs, Molly."

"No, it doesn't. What would you have done, John? People expect the impossible of Sherlock. People expect all the answers, and all this strength, and all of this apathy." She shook her head, looked over at the man whose eyes were still closed, his hands still tapping together in front of his face. "Look, we aren't getting anywhere with this. Just promise me you'll be there for him."

"Of course I will, Molly. I just can't go through Harry again, I can't." He didn't face her, his back already to her as he headed to the door.

"It's not about what you can handle, John. It's about Sherlock." He jumped at her touch on his jacket. She knew it was hard for him. "He needs you to be there, even if you don't know what to say."

She felt his observation of her while she waved John goodbye. As she turned, she saw him standing again. She'd never seen him look more puzzled, not even when she'd informed him of his sadness.

"How do you do that, Molly?" It's a genuine question. She had no idea what he's talking about.

"Do what?"

"How do you look at things and see straight through to the heart of them?" It's like a test in school, where there's supposed to be a right answer to something with so many correct options. And she doesn't have any idea which one he wants.

"I just, I know people. I'm just empathic I guess." He doesn't accept this answer. He doesn't say anything, but she can tell by the way his eyes linger on her even as he turns away, he doesn't accept it. "My mum, she said that people either went two ways. Either they're happy or they're sad. Everything else from there on is just details."

"Sounds simplistic."

"It is, but you start to realize there are an awful lot of sad people in the world." She turned, hiding her face as she went to prepare tea.


	8. Chapter 8

**Blue Sunday**

"Sherlock."

"Hm?" He'd moved his violin in sometime while she was at work, and now spent most of the day playing Chopin. Any attempt to talk to him was blatantly ignored, unless he was between pieces or she'd forced him to eat. He was currently in the lull between Nocturnes.

"Why do you allow people to treat you the way they do?"

His hand paused in its slight, tight motions, his shoulders tensed. He didn't turn to face her for several heartbeats. When he did his face was blank.

"I'm pretty sure I'm the emotional transgressor in this room."

"Sherlock, listen, I understand. You are a complete jerk about ninety percent of the time, and you were almost always one to me. But you think I didn't notice it was reactive? I do."

"Reactive?" He scoffs, shifts. He wears awkwardness like a second skin. Always has, simultaneously positive about who and what he is, unable to accept it.

She came to him, levelled her chin with his chest, stared stern at his face.

"Your brother told you caring was a weakness, told you love was a disadvantage. He distanced you from your emotions. Have you ever wondered why?" He didn't move as she searched out his heartbeat, palm resting against the smooth fabric of his shirt. Sandalwood, leather, something chemical and sharp. She breathed in deep, closed her eyes.

"He's never been proven wrong."

"If I didn't care about you, do you think I would have been able to pull of the Fall?"

"Of course you would have." His heartbeat flutters under her touch.

"I mean the side of it that kept you alive for two years, Sherlock. I'm brilliant at my job, I know that. I couldn't have kept quiet all those months, watched John suffer all that time, if I didn't care about you, Sherlock. It gave me strength, not weakness." She closes the distance between them, leans her head against his shoulder. Feels his exhale as he allows her hand to run over his back. "Has caring never given you strength?"

He tensed again. She wondered what he was thinking about. There was something. Did it have to do with the Woman? Or John? Probably both of those two. She wanted to know.

"You." It's a breath, barely breaking the air above her head.

"What? No, I mean your care, for someone."

"You. You saved me when… when I was shot." She furrowed her brows, ran over the event in her mind. She hadn't been there, and she hadn't even been to visit him until shortly before he'd been allowed to go home.

"I don't know what you mean." He shrugged, moved away from her. Returned his violin to its place on his shoulder.

"Tell me about your mum." He paused again, shot her an exasperated sigh.

"She's dead." He's trying to be gruff, but she hears the catch in his voice.

"Is that what she'd like you to remember?"

"It doesn't particularly matter what she'd like me to remember." He puts the violin down.

"You can keep fighting against the grief, Sherlock, but that's not going to make it go away. It's not going to make it die. It's not going to make it quiet." He's not looking at her.

"She was the kindest, and gentlest, woman I have ever known." He heads to the door, jacket swinging around his shoulders. "That is all you need to know."

She spent the rest of her night shuffling about her flat, convinced she had just sent Sherlock into another fit of self-destructive behavior. The problem with being someone who had lived through this before is that even though she knew she couldn't be responsible for Sherlock's decisions, she couldn't help but feel the weight of responsibility regardless.

So when he phone buzzed at three in the morning, she lurched from her dozing on the couch and snatched it from the table.

Meet me at Baker Street. –SH

A second later, the message tune sounded again.

Please. –SH

She threw on shoes and ran a comb through her hair, checking to make sure she hadn't forgotten something important, like pants, before she continued on to his flat.

She walked into a warzone. Papers strewn across the floor, glass scattered over countertops. He leaned on his couch, hands poised over his chin. His eyes were puffy, his mouth occasionally gathering into a grimace before it flattened back out. He wasn't wearing his jacket, or his button shirt, or any of his nice suit. He was dressed as he had been the day he'd come into her lab for a drug screen. She could tell now though, a drug screen wasn't necessary. This was not drugs, this was avoiding them.

"Sherlock. What happened?"

"She's gone." His voice is calm and steady as ever.

"Your mum?"

"Of course my mum. Mrs. Hudson is here as happily as ever, though probably less so now that I've trashed her flat." He leaned back, dropped his hands to his side. He looked like a tired, worn man. How could one person look so young and so old at the same time?

"What made you come here and do this?"

"I don't know what else to do. I don't… there's so much, and I don't know how to fix it or move it or delete it."

"You know our brains never really delete things, right Sherlock?" He cut his eyes at her, but didn't respond. Of course he knew that.

"They can be minimized, set aside. Buried."

"You cannot find enough in the world to set aside your mother." He winced, but didn't argue.

"She used to tell me to play violin, or become a scientist, or do anything less dangerous than a consulting detective. She used to tell me I made up the job just to make her worry." He smiled, just a bit. "When I got shot she insisted on making dinner and even forced Mycroft to come to Christmas. Of course, I repaid her well for that."

"You did what you thought you had to do." She crossed the room, careful to avoid bits of glass and chips of preferred unknown substances.

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. She stopped in front of his couch, unsure what to do from there. He spoke again, his voice quiet in the stillness of Baker Street. "Right before she gave up, she kept telling me to bring her by. Said she knew I'd found a girlfriend, and that she wanted to meet her before she passed." His face crumpled, but no tears came.

"People say strange things when they're under duress." She perched herself on the couch beside him, fingers closing over his.

"Molly, this isn't easy for me."

"Have you ever grieved for someone before, Sherlock?" He didn't move, didn't answer, just clenched her fingers in his hand.


	9. Chapter 9

**Blue Sunday**

The relationship between Molly and Sherlock grew more confusing by the day. He spent alternating nights in Molly's flat, usually calling her over to Baker Street once she'd left work on the nights he planned to stay at 221B. He never asked her to stay, but the question hung in the air like thin smoke. It wisped away the moment she stood to leave, Sherlock ushering her out the door with huffs and sighs and enough anxiety to rival a schoolboy.

There was going to be only one way to break through to him. One way that she knew would at least allow him to talk about it. Even if she couldn't get to the grief, to the heart of his problem, she could tackle why he'd come to her. Of all people, he'd chosen his pathologist for his troubles. More than once she'd realized that John was exceedingly jealous of the fact. He had come by very rarely. She counted on that now, on complete privacy. Sherlock would need it.

Tonight was a night for Sherlock to spend at her flat, if he kept his routine. She waited, impatient now that she'd intended to confront him. She shivered, despite the heat of her living room. This would be far bolder than anything she'd attempted before.

Around eight, he finally appeared. The ever increasing haggardness of his clothes and chin scruff had finally peaked into a boyish, charmless skeleton. He'd need a shower and something hot to eat before she did any part of her plan this night. He'd have to be in good health.

"Shower. Now." He glared at her. "Go on. You'll not be spending the night in my house smelling of…" She sniffed the air, snarled her nose. "God, where was this case? A bar alley?" He grinned. Right on the money then. "You smell terrible, go get clean."

He didn't look at all chastened, and even with her scolding, that smile was as disarming as ever. It wasn't long before she heard the pouring of her shower, and heard the unmistakable humming that he'd began since he started staying with her. She wondered how long it would take for his things to start finding their way to her place.

She heated dinner, a little embarrassed at having leftovers for the third time. Even still, he'd need food. By the time she'd finished reheating stew and setting out bowls, he had padded across her room. She didn't even blush at his immodesty anymore. At least he'd thought enough for her this time to wrap a towel around his waist. He eyed the stew warily, no doubt wishing it were something fried and not remotely healthy. The man ate like a teenage boy.

He'd shoveled a few bites in and swallowed them forcefully before she spoke. In just a few bites he was half done.

"Sherlock, I've a theory about you."

"About me?" He quirked an eyebrow, thinned his lips. "If you've come to diagnose me, I will leave." She did not doubt him. How many people had tried to tell him what all was wrong with him and how it could be fixed? No.

"I have said many times, you do not need to be fixed. I stand by that."

"Then theorize away." His dry cheeriness and downward gaze told her he did not believe her.

"You have heard of the Freudian theory of the Superego, Ego, and Id?"

"Of course, psychology. How boring." He glared at her, leaning away from his bowl, spoon clinking harshly against the glass.

"Well, I found it quite fascinating in college. As you are aware, the Id is our primal—"

"I merely recognized it as psychology. I have no need to keep up with the details of anything Freud said."  
"Yes, well, you've a need to keep up with what I say." She didn't question it, and he didn't argue.

"Go on then." Irritation crept in, a defensive maneuver she'd witnessed before.

"As you are not aware, apparently, the id is the primal desires we are born with. The desires for comfort, the desires for anything and everything. The Id declares all of these desires must be answered immediately." He rolled his eyes, clearly expecting he knew where she was going.

"The Ego is employed to keep the Id in check. It keeps the Id working in a socially acceptable manner. It develops after infancy." He groaned now, leaning his head back and overall looking like a kid on the verge of a tantrum. "The Superego is our right and wrong, and ultimately governs how we behave."

"Is there a point to this little psychology lesson?"

"The balance of interaction between these three aspects of our personality establish our ego strength, or the ability to handle the difficulties of such conflicting determinants."

"And this has to do with me…?"

"I believe at some point, all three of your personality aspects were undermined. You were denied the basic pleasures of comfort, validation, and this manifested itself into denying yourself the more immediate necessities of food and sleep. Your Ego is meant to control your Id, but as your Id was being disrupted by outside forces and eventually quite willingly by yourself, your Ego took what things did comfort you and made them accessible whether the means to getting them were socially accepted or not."

He frowned at her, mind processing each aspect of explanation. No doubt he was analyzing every side of her words, as well as everything beneath. Talking to Sherlock meant every word had to be purposeful, because it all meant something to him.

"From there, your Superego received skewed ideas of right and wrong. You do what is good, what is right, but you go about it in untraditional ways. Your Superego super processed, saying that bad people should be punished, without saying that the good people behind them are important. The result became all that was important. And in a terrible cycle, that thought trickled down to the Id and Ego, so that what you desire is the condensed in result, that is what is necessary. The Ego determines that what is socially acceptable for you is to get that result, and to do it without expectations of gratitude or appreciation. Those two now reinforce the idea in your Superego."

"That sounds like a lot of complicated excuses to say I act like an arse to get the job done."

"No. Not what I meant." She closed her eyes, gathered her thoughts, and tried again. "What it all means, Sherlock, is that your entire self has been debased by continuous lies and reinforced ideas of isolation and self-deprivation. You are genuinely amazing, and you hide it."

"No, you can ask anyone. I show off at every possible moment, it is truly something I easily acknowledge."

"No, no, you know you're brilliant. You know that, I've been the victim of that." She stepped behind him, sighed. Her stew was probably cold by now, but she didn't have the stomach for it. "What I mean is, you do not react well to someone challenging your ego strength. You recoil when someone tries to give you comforts that your Id is not expecting. Like falling dominos, there is a rippling effect through your conscience." She wondered if this was working. He at least seemed interested.

"So, you think you have me all figured out, do you?" He leaned back further, his neck stretched out as he looked at her behind him. "All my damage, you think you've boiled it down to my Id?"

"You're not damaged. You're just different. You've developed outside of what is considered normal, and it makes you a raw nerve." She had upset him. She could see it. This was not as she'd expected.

"Comforts. I don't need comfort." He stood, ready to march from the door again.

She didn't think. She didn't question. She grabbed his shirt, pulled him to her. He was in pyjamas, all thin and loose cotton. Her nose bent into the crook of his neck. He smelled like her body wash, like vanilla and honey. It was too sweet for him. She held him tightly, and he didn't respond. She let out a shaky breath, felt the thump of his heart speed under her own pulse. His skin was smooth and warm, and with far more courage than she felt, she kissed his outstretched pulse. She was rewarded almost immediately as his arms wrapped around her back. The concession fed her bravery, prompted a quick nibble in the space still wet by dripping hair.

Everything escalated. Hands roamed, mouths crashed together, groans and moans echoed in the small space of her dining room. She didn't realize exactly how little she'd gotten used to wearing around him. Her shorts and tank top left too much open skin for him to reach, fire trailing over her thighs as he slid his hands precariously close to her center. She kissed every reachable space, down his neck, over his collar bone, down his front. Her fingers slipped below his shirt, scratched over skin. There was heat and frenzy and desire between them.

A knock at her door ended everything in a split second. They both stilled immediately. One hand gripped her side, another cupped her breast. She found her own touches betrayed her, fingers just skimming the waist of his pants. In the space of a breath they parted, both with red cheeks. His gaze was not the same. There was hunger there now.

"Would you mind answering your door?" He was heading back to the guest room, his arrogance back in place.


	10. Chapter 10

**Blue Sunday**

Her eyes narrowed. "Sherlock, it's for you."

"Tell them to go away." His reply was muffled by the door.

"It's Mycroft." A pause, and then another opening door.

"Go away, brother dear." A few long strides and he'd faced his brother on his own. If he was still affected from their collision earlier, he didn't show it.

"I've a case for you Sherlock. John assures me you'll find it to be an eight at least."

Molly's heart stopped. Sherlock had been reckless, dangerous. He didn't need an eight. He needed at most a five. Whatever had shattered in Sherlock Holmes had left him teetering on a thin knife edge. Falling now would kill him. Nothing below could catch him. She looked between the two brothers. Any hope she had that he'd refuse slid away. Excitement lit his face like nothing but a case could.

"No. Absolutely not. I don't care if it's an eleven, you're not going." She said it as if it was ludicrous. He glared back at her.

"Of course I'm taking it. I haven't had a good case in ages."

"You've not had a good case in ages because you can't handle one right now." Her heart thumped against her ribs.

"I can't handle one?" She winced. She needed to bring this back to solid, happy ground. "Since when do you decide what I can handle?"

Mycroft chuckled. "Really, what did you expect from sentiment, brother?" The scowl on Sherlock's face did not speak well for her.

"No, Sherlock, it's not about sentiment! You've displayed unbelievable self-destructive behavior since your mother died." She took a deep breath, soldiered on through his retort. "You have to heal, you have to deal with it before you do anything drastic."

"I'm perfectly suited to drastic." He's eyeing her again and something in his expression hardens. Worry wriggles in her stomach. "I'm used to drastic. My brain thrives on it."

"Your brain can't thrive in a dead body, Sherlock." She turns towards Mycroft, tries to plead without insulting Sherlock further. She knows he can read her, knows he can deduce her. How can the Holmes boys be so blind? "Mycroft, you can't let him do this."

"It's his decision. Isn't it you that told me he's an adult and all that?"

"Yes, but…" She should have explained herself. She should have said more. The waves of icy anger rolling off Sherlock was enough to silence her, to plead with everything but words for the two of them to stop this madness.

"Go on then. What's the case?"

"We have word that a powerful family has lost their daughter. It was at first believed she was a runaway and would be back as soon as her credit card was deactivated, but it appears not to be the case. She's been missing for several days now."

"Not exactly my case."

"She appears to have a strong familial bond with Ms. Adler."

Sherlock's eyebrow raised. Molly's blood ran cold. That was _the _Woman. She should have known things too comfortable.

"Is the Woman aware of the developments?"

"No. She's not made contact since America. It would behoove me to keep her in the dark. Her previous connections would be quite excited to have her back among their ranks."

She could see the excitement tapping away on his fingers. Did he even realize he did that? Of course not. He believed he still appeared bored. Did Mycroft see it? Did anyone see Sherlock like she did?

After discussing details, Mycroft left without another word to her. The chill from Sherlock could freeze her. Why was he so angry? Why?

"So. You going to go now?" A knot stuck in her throat. She refused to face him, refused to let him read the emotion on her face. The ever-present weight of his deductions pressed against her skin. It was exhausting to be measured every moment in his presence.

"It may be for the best." Irritation. Anger.

"So that's it then? We get in one little spat and you're off?"

"Little spat?" He scoffed, blew off the entire disagreement without losing his anger.

"If you take that case, you have to swear to me you'll be safe." He didn't answer. "Sherlock Holmes, tell me you will be safe."

"I'm always safe, Molly." She held her breath, heard her door open. She knew he left. She'd known he would leave after she saw his expression change. She should never have pushed for him to refuse.

No. She had to. Molly Hooper could handle not talking to him if it was for his own good. She could withhold and stay silent. He should have listened. She wasn't interested in a relationship where her feelings, her thoughts, were unwelcome. He'd expected too little from her, and now he'd pay the consequence. And so would she. All be damned, she worried.

She'd seen the signs. The restlessness, the agitation. He'd spend half his time at dinner fidgeting, pushing food around on his plate to try to convince her he'd eaten. The usual manner with which he kept himself groomed and well-dressed had faltered, leaving his shirt's wrinkled and his clothes loose. He'd spiraled.

She pulled out her phone, flipped through the contacts. Found the Watson name and dialed. She tapped her foot, one of the several habits she'd begun to pick up during Sherlock's stay with her. Finally a familiar voice answered. The sound of a baby wailing in the background made her feel uncomfortable.

"Mary, I need a favor. I need you to protect Sherlock." The line crackled as the other woman moved. She probably was moving away from John.

"What do you need?"

Molly took a deep breath, swallowed the pain in the throat. "I need you to make sure he doesn't get himself killed on this case. Mycroft has asked him on a ten. I don't think his brother realizes it, but Sherlock is not doing well. He's not… he's not safe." Her voice shook. The other side of the line was quiet for a moment before Mary spoke.

"I'll keep an eye out on him, yeah. He's on his way over here now, I think. John got a message a bit ago and won't tell me who it's from. I know it's Sherlock."

Molly nodded, then remembered the other woman couldn't see her. "Yeah, listen. Don't tell Sherlock I called ok. He's mad. I told him not to take the case."

"Oh dear, why'd you go and do that? The man's the most stubborn bull I've ever met."

"I was worried. I thought he'd listen to me. I thought we were," She didn't want to admit she'd thought they were together. She didn't want to admit she'd been that naïve.

"No worries dear. I'll bring him around."

"Thanks."

She hung up the phone, wondering if she'd made the right decision. She could trust Mary. Did she overstep? She didn't know anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

**Blue Sunday**

Sherlock's humming was the last thing Molly expected when she walked through the door. It had been weeks.

"Sherlock? What are you doing here?"

"Today is your flat." He said it like she should have known he would be here.

"Today is my …?" Countertops and tabletops of rising dough filled her flat with the smell of yeast. "I thought you were angry with me."

Blue eyes rolled skyward, a pestle paused over the mortar. Basil and garlic ebbed through the stale smell of leavening. She studied him, watching. His gaunt shoulders were stiff. Pale, clean shaven jaw set. Back arched slightly back, feet braced. He was afraid. Something was wrong.

"No. I know you were angry with me. What's going on Sherlock?"

"I didn't have flour. Or milk. Or basil."

"You could have gone to the store."

He still didn't look at her. Not even one of his withering stares at such a ludicrous suggestion. Cupid bow lips squared. He finished with his herbs, set them to the side, and began working on the closest ball of dough. She watched it deflate.

"Why bread?"

"Practice."

"Why?"

He didn't answer. She recalled the last time he'd baked in her kitchen. Rows and rows of poisoned chocolates, with a terribly flimsy excuse. That case didn't require that experiment. Sherlock Holmes baked… for fun?

She watched him moved to the next loaf after he'd scattered his mixture and rolled the blobby mass into a good sized oval. He pressed, light. Tension she'd noted earlier leaked away.

Sherlock Holmes baked for calm.

"You know, you'll owe me for the ingredients." Still nothing. "If you're not going to talk to me then you can leave." The sharp turn in her direction came exactly as she thought it would. She squared her posture, put her chin up. "I'm serious. Tell me what's going on. You can't just throw a fit and expect to waltz back in here." _That's not how relationships work. _It was unspoken, but it hung about the room regardless.

"The girl I was meant to find. She's a child." He continued seasoning and rolling bread dough, shifting his body to face the counters again.

"And? You'll find her Sherlock, I—"

"She'd dead."

She didn't know what to say to that. What did he want?

"I'm sorry. Does the Woman know?"

"Irene is aware. She is quite inconsolable."

She took a deep breath. "Did she die before or…?"

"You're asking if it's my fault. No." He hit the dough too hard, and she watched it go flat. "I've assured Irene I'll find who killed her."

"Why are you here?"

"I needed flour." Something in his expression hardened, a repeat of his previous encounter with her. He left, mounds of pale glop all over her kitchen unattended. Everything about the situation was confusing.

She pulled her phone out, dialed Mary's number.

"Molly?"

"Yeah, have you heard from Sherlock? He was just by here."

"Not in a bit dear. John said the case hasn't gone well."

"Did he mention the Woman?"

"She's heading to London now, from what I gather. He's quite a bit worried."

"Sherlock was cooking. Um, do you guys need bread?" She counted. At least eight, and that's if he hadn't managed to hide one somewhere.

"Can't hurt to have some can it?" Mary hummed, and Emma cried in the background. That child cried so often.

"Mary, I'm worried. He's not ok. You should've seen him."

"That's what John said."

"How dangerous is this case?"

"It's definitely a ten."

Something knocked against her door. By the time she caught his angry expression, she'd already hung up the phone. Automatically, she straightened out her back and jutted her jaw.

"I don't need a handler." She noted the baggy fit of his shirt. He may have cleaned up since taking the case, but his habit of not eating hadn't helped him much.

"Of course not." She turned towards his bread, flattened it out.

"Then why are you talking to Mary Watson behind my back?"

"Because we care about you and you're worrying us." Before she could think it out the confession fell from her mouth. "She was looking for you too, while you disappeared for that month. You know, when you showed up to my flat nearly dead."

"I'm aware." She popped the first two loaves in the oven, continuing to flatten and roll the others. He harrumphed behind her.

"That's not right. Your timing will be off now."

"I guess you shouldn't have pretended to storm out in a hissy fit so you could spy on me."

He ground his teeth, working on one she hadn't ruined. "You weren't going to tell me you were having Mary follow me."

"She followed you?" She hadn't acted like she'd followed him. She'd barely had any information.

"Yes. Nearly successful in boarding the plane, too. Turns out she wasn't keen on getting caught sneaking about." Pause. "John gave her away. Entirely too nervous."

"He knew?"

"Of course he knew. She doesn't lie to him." Another pause. "Any more."

"Not surprising." It was soothing, the feel of the dough between her hands, the rhythm. "Why are you here?"

The voice that answered her was smooth as silk and distinctly female. "He's trying to protect you dearest."

"Why do I even have doors?" She thought she'd hissed it quietly enough, but Irene's sharp laugh said otherwise.

"It appears we've quite the flamboyant little serial killer here, and for once the killer has leeched to Sherlock and not vice versa." Molly faced Irene for the first time. The body on the slab had looked quite similar, aside from the obliterated face.

Irene was ice. Whatever Molly had expected when she'd heard of the Woman's reputation, this had not been it. Her eyes were steel, her expression an arctic wind blowing conversation out of the room. Practiced sensuality still highlighted the cock of her hip, the perfect nails against her black dress. Even still, Irene Adler was not here as a dominatrix. She wasn't even here as Sherlock's enemy or lover or whatever they had been. She was here as a sister.

"Protect me? What?"

"The Surgeon." Everything about her was sharp. Her voice cut through Molly's question.

"I don't understand." Irene's grim smile made her stomach sink.

"Well, love, it appears Sherlock's gone in over his head." Heels clacked against the tile of her kitchen. "He couldn't save my sister, but his efforts did attract some unfortunate attention." She leaned against a counter, white flour daring to dust across her morning dress.

"Why would he come here?"

"You." He finally spoke up, eyes never leaving the Woman. Molly felt the air tighten, the two intruders having a stare off in the middle of too-proofed bread and overly dusted countertops.

"Me? I've not done anything—"

"You really can be incredibly thick. He's coming here for you because of me. Just like he went to America because of Irene."

"No nickname for me? How disappointing." Irene's power drained all at once. The mention of her sister sent her shoulders down, her eyes closed.

"Stop with your act." It was a demand if she'd ever heard one, but Irene did not bow. "Go home. Heaven knows your mother needs you now."

"She'll need me less when that bastard is off the streets."

"What do you plan to do, investigate yourself into a grave?"

Molly levelled a stare at Sherlock. He was saying, in his Sherlockian way, the exact argument she'd thrown at him. Despite herself, her heart sank.

"And what will you do? Camp out in this cramped flat and come up with wild excuses to take up the Doctor's space and time?"

It wasn't that cramped, really. She'd always thought it had a rather cozy feel to it.

"I have every intention of keeping her safe."

"And I had every intention of the same, and look what happened there."

The two glared again, but she'd had enough.

"Hello, yes, this is my house. Just reminding everyone of that. And I believe I asked why? Why would this Surgeon character be after me in the first place?"

"He was quite specific." He didn't look at her.

"He said he was going after Sherlock Holmes' heart." The Woman's neck turned slowly, blue piercing brown with the weight of the words.

"But, what about John? And Mary? And the baby?"

"They're safe."

"You don't understand do you, sweet?" Another laugh, this one nearly silent. Molly had a moment of sympathy as she saw the exhaustion behind the pearly white smile. "She is a bit thick sometimes. The Surgeon is threatening Sherlock's Heart. You. Are. His. Heart."

It was Molly's turn to laugh.

"He barely—" Not for the first time today, she was interrupted.

"Out, Ms. Adler. Go home. Or to your bolthole. Or to anywhere not here."

Irene didn't move.

"Please Miss… Adler, come back later if you must."

"Thanks for the offer, sweet." Molly wondered how many names she'd be called.

"It's Molly. Molly Hooper." She held out a hand, surprised by the light touch that caressed her palm. She blushed as the Woman whisked away down the London street, disappearing too quickly. "Care to explain?"

"He seems to have some idea that you and I are in a relationship." She thought over the last few months. Was it a relationship? It felt like one sometimes. Others, no.

"Are we?"

He ignored her, throwing sticky goop into a trash bag.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, answer my question." The full name flew out from some unknown store of anger and authority she hadn't tapped into in a long time.

His back went rigid. She knew why. She knew she'd made a mistake.

"Don't use my full name."

"I know, I'm sorry."

The Sherlock from before receded.

"He has a fixation on women. He's never had a male victim. I clearly am not close enough to Mary for him to consider her my heart. Adler's case was an exception to his usual age range, a personal vendetta he has not quite finished. Beyond that fact, her situation was sixteen, hardly young enough to assume he'd leave his comfort range to attack Emma." She wasn't sure if she was supposed to be listening, but he seemed to be explaining something to her. "The most obvious choice was out of course, since John is male. Irene was a possibility, but that was obvious. Besides, if he was going to kill her he'd have done so already. He's had tabs on her for far too long. I'll have to mention it to Mycroft."

"Sherlock, what are you on about?"

"It was you. It had to be you."


	12. Chapter 12

**Blue Sunday**

If Sherlock was worried about her, he had a hell of a way of showing it. He hadn't been back to her place since his cryptic declarations that it 'had to be her'. It had only been a few days, but now every creak in her home was either someone come to kill her, or Sherlock. Since so far it had been neither, she woke at everything.

She'd tried to continue work and life as always, but something tugged her to look for him. Maybe it was years of understandable worry, maybe it was just that she really had grown to know him. It didn't matter. She found herself walking along the streets he used to frequent when they first met. They were seedy, but apparently not tempting to Sherlock Holmes this time.

Her third night searching for him, she finds him slinking away with a package tucked under his arm, a poor disguise thrown together to make him almost blend in with the alley cats. The bag's markings were not entirely familiar, but she had seen them before. Regardless, they had important discussion to have. So she followed him.

She didn't have to follow him long before she found herself in a very overgrown park. He'd folded himself behind a large stone and table. It was odd that he hadn't noticed her. Odd enough to make her question her earlier assumption that he hadn't been in one of his sleazy dens while she was out. It could always be that he'd finally managed to disguise himself enough to fool her.

When she rounded the grumbling stone of the crouching angel statue he'd chosen to hide behind, she found him unstopping a large bottle of something amber. The sharp scent of alcohol burned through the air, crinkled her nostrils. From the looks of him he hadn't recovered from his last bout.

"What, you just decided that you needed a good bender to set things straight, then?" Glazed eyes jumped up at her, hand trying unsuccessfully to jerk behind his back. The space was too narrow. "I must admit, I never pictured you as much of a drinker."

"Drinking is seen as a socially acceptable way to handle stress. Just ask anyone who has ever uttered the words 'need a drink.'" He didn't move the bottle any closer or further from his mouth. Instead it remained perched halfway.

"What are you stressed about then?" He didn't answer, his unsteady attentions focused instead on the label of the bottle. "Sherlock, you know that society often lies. If you thought this was acceptable you wouldn't be hiding it."

"I'm hiding it because I know you wouldn't find it acceptable." Just like every other concession he's made to her, this is a whisper that only barely makes it beyond his lips.

"That's not true, now is it?" Slow steps, outstretched hand. She approaches him like she would a wounded animal. He does not struggle as she pulls the bottle from his hand. "If it was just me you were worried about, you could easily have gone home."

He tilts his head at her, a frown ground into his features. "What would you deduce about my actions, Molly?"

"They're old actions really. You've just returned to years ago, when this was normal for you. You think I didn't know you used to choose homelessness? You think I didn't know you came about your homeless network entirely on accident?"

Just the smallest twitches of his lips upwards, but it's enough to know she's impressed him. "Always underestimating."

"Yes, you are." He looked horrible, as was becoming his norm lately. Something beyond alcohol that she couldn't place. "Come on now, Sherlock, let's get you home."

"Not mine. Not Baker Street." He's shaking his head hard, unfocused eyes glaring at her. "Mrs. Hudson would be furious."

"Of course she would. I guess you assume I'm happy about it?"

"You're not too upset about it. You're helping me." He looks down at her as she tosses his arm around her shoulders. Twice in the space of a few weeks. How lovely, under the circumstances.

"I am upset. Let's get you home."

"Not Baker Street." He's adamant, like a child. Every time he falls into the world of oblivion it is a child who comes through the other side. She cannot help but speculate.

"You don't usually drink. Why alcohol this time?"

"Better than drugs." His voice was slurred, his pupils shrinking. She felt her stomach sink.

"Not much." His pulse was too weak, his breathing too shallow.

"Hm."

They said nothing else until she dragged him up to Baker Street. He murmured and mumbled at her, vehemently protesting all the way up the steps to the worn door.

"I've nowhere else to take you, you git." He went limp in her arms. His body hit the sidewalk, nonresponsive.

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes don't you do this to me." He wasn't breathing. Twice. Twice.

The alcohol was a cover up. A lie. He had known she'd caught him. As she dialed the ambulance, panic already starting, she realized the truth of what had happened. Sherlock Holmes, greatest detective and biggest arse in all of London, had intentionally attempted overdose. He'd tried to die, and tried to hide it from her.

And now he wasn't breathing.

His lips were cold and clammy, the usual reddish hue tinged blue. She started CPR.

Push two inches. Thirty counted. Head back. Mouth open. Breath.

Two breaths. Push again. Repeat.

She didn't know how long she administered the process before the ambulance showed up. One minute she forced him to stay alive, and the next a stranger pulled her off of him. She hadn't even realized she'd yelled at him between breathing, cursing him and pleading with him to just not die.

Of course, for him, dying wasn't the worst that could happen.

Brain damage.

Endocarditis. Collapsed veins. Limb loss.

Organ failure.

She couldn't do this. She couldn't be responsible for this anymore. John had known what she hadn't.

Rehab wasn't just for Sherlock.

She couldn't be responsible for his recovery. She couldn't be responsible for his failure.


	13. Chapter 13

**Blue Sunday**

What's the blood analysis say? –SH

Molly, this place is boring. I need to work on the case. –SH

You're in danger Molly. I need to work on the case. –SH

The messages were back to back. He was supposed to be at a support meeting right now. She'd learned the schedules. This was always when he started texting her.

Pay attention to the person at the pulpit. –MH

I need a case. John said you were working the Surgeon. –SH

I am. I have it handled. Now stop texting me. –MH

Of all things, she missed the Consulting Detective. Her only comfort was that Sherlock Holmes was at least not going to do heroin in the center. He'd never embarrass himself so thoroughly. His pride may just save his life this time.

She knew what he was really trying to do. This was a boundary she'd never expected him to break. This was a place she'd never known she could find herself. She'd always known he'd had his problems, but a purposeful overdose was more than she could excuse.

At night, when her eyelids were heavy and her back ached from work and her brain pulsed with all the fear of the Surgeon and his involvement, she would text him only one word. He never responded. The next morning she would with him a good day and if she saw John at all that day there would be questions about the case. But he never answered her one simple text.

Right now, she needed to work. In what little free time she had at work, she would investigate the few scraps of evidence she had managed to extradite from America. A blood analysis butchered beyond all repair by bleach, rendering the sample useless. A hair strand that matched nothing. A forensic sketch of a male in sunglasses and a hoodie, almost no features distinctive. This man might as well have been a ghost. Surgeon so far had seemed hardly appropriate a name for him.

Until she found the crime scene photos.

The poor girl had been autopsied, only the nature of the blood pooling and splatters implied that he'd done most of his work with a living victim. Her screen came back with ketamine-benzodiazepine, whose analgesic affects were mild and not suited to the level of pain the girl would have endured. The sedation would have been mostly mobility related. The thought made her sick in her stomach.

She was so distracted by her investigating that she didn't hear the door to the morgue open. It wasn't until heels clacked sharply against the floor that she looked up, surprised to see dark hair and red lipstick. The Woman was dressed appropriately Sherlock-ish.

"I hear you've extradited my sister's file and sent the detective to a hole."

"You will not make me feel guilty for sending him somewhere that can help him. I don't know how."

"I would never dream of pouting those lips of yours, sweet." There was that nickname again. She didn't like that nickname.

"It's Molly. Molly Hooper." She resisted the urge to stick her hand out. They'd already met "I would suggest not looking at these."

"I am not your usual mourning family member, sweet. I was with Sherlock when he found her."

"Is this what sent him off like he was? Failing?"

"No dear. Not failing here." Irene tapped her fingers against her desk, her eyes inspecting Molly. She was being tested, weighed and measured for strength. "Did you know Sherlock when he used? Before?"

"No."

"Me neither. I have, however, resources which you couldn't dream to have. And those resources have revealed that our favorite Consulting Detective used to abuse quite extensively during cases. In University, he passed top of his class high as a kite. Which only further convinced him that the stuff slowed his mind down enough to be useful."

"How do you know—"

"As I said, dear. I have resources you couldn't dream to have." A thin red nail slid over the picture of the fallen girl, who was every bit as beautiful as her older counterpart. A shaky breath and pursed lips said all she needed to.

"He can't do this case. It would kill him. I don't know why, and I've a feeling I'll never get a straight answer. But it would kill him." Molly watched Irene's face until she looked back at her, blue eyes sharp and wet. "Help me. Help me find this man before he kills me."

"I had every intention of finding him before." Molly didn't shuffle or wriggle under Irene's sweeping scrutiny. It earned her a soft smile, and this time the hand that stretched out was not hers. An acknowledgement.

Molly was no longer Sherlock's meek pathologist. This was an acknowledgement of her abilities. The strong grip against hers felt equal as opposed to its earlier counterpart.

"He's managed to find a good one."

"I'm not something he found, Miss Adler. To be honest, I found him."

"I do not doubt." She had already turned and begun to walk out from the morgue when Molly realized she had a question to ask.

"Why'd you come here?"

"One of my resources said to check on you. He's quite worried." The remark was tossed over her shoulder, but Molly still checked her phone. No messages since her reprimand.

That night, curled in her bed, she tried to tell herself not to ask. Not to wonder. Not to hope that this time he would answer. She argued against the question in her head. He didn't owe her an explanation. Badgering him about it was only going to estrange him. He wasn't her dad. It wasn't her fault. He'd done it because he didn't know how to deal with grief, or because he was high and disappointed with himself, or because he was alone.

In the end, she picked up her phone and typed out the simple question.

Why? –MH

She waited, setting the phone on her night table and forcing herself not to look. She fought against the urge to text again. She only barely managed to keep from picking the phone up and calling him. She had almost avoided it enough that she was starting to doze, no longer disappointed by the lack of response, when the phone buzzed.

It is hard to fight a battle that you have already lost. –SH


	14. Chapter 14

**Blue Sunday**

**Guys, just a note: This is a story about Sherlock being depressed and is not actually a story about the Surgeon, so the Surgeon is not going to take over the story exactly. Just wanted to say that. Since I'm breaking some writing rules of mystery stuff.**

Molly woke the next morning to the feel of someone's eyes on her. Her hand hung heavy off the side of the bed, a smooth weight in her hands. She'd fallen asleep staring at the message, trying to decipher what it could mean. She had an idea, of course.

A terrible idea, and one that had given her nightmares during her precious few hours of sleep. Finding him twice hardly comforted her. Her mind had clearly grasped what a dying Sherlock looked like. Her nightmares did not have to imagine much. Hell, she'd even been to his funeral once. All in the wrong order.

These thoughts pulled her slowly from her sleep to turn towards the curious eyes pawing at her pyjama clad body. Somewhere in the night she'd twisted out of her covers. She was entirely exposed to the cool blue eyes and bright red smile of the woman in her room.

"He's quite a lucky man to find someone who can look so lovely while so troubled."

Molly blushed and tucked the phone underneath her pillow. No messages since Sherlock's last night. No calls either. So then, why had Irene shown up so unexpectedly? There clearly hadn't been any news. She had explicitly stated that Ms. Adler should call if they learned anything new.

"I lost your number. You should give it to me again. Over dinner?"

"It's not even daylight out. How can you possibly be talking about dinner?" Her voice was croaky from sleep.

"Hm. I guess he really didn't talk about me. How unflattering." Irene leaned over her, motions smooth as honey as she pulled Molly's phone away. "I had the most ghastly idea, sweet. I need to check my voicemail."

"Don't you have your own phone for that?"

"I don't use my phone."

Molly recalled the _noises _Sherlock's phone made whenever Irene texted him. Somehow she didn't believe her, but it wasn't any of her business what the Woman did with her phone. Although, it was her business what was done with her own phone.

"May I ask why you need my phone to call_ your_ voicemail?"

"Simple, sweet. My phone was being bugged."

That didn't make sense. It simply didn't. Sherlock had once x-rayed this phone himself and found it wired to destruct should anyone try to tamper with it. How could someone bug it? How could someone get close enough without Irene's explicit consent? Tall and commanding, she denied the appearance of one who'd tolerate unsolicited contact of any sort.

She was half way to pointing out the blatant lie when Irene piped up, a wry smirk on her lips.

"I know, I know. It was weak at best. But it bought me the time to do this." Molly's phone was held to the Woman's ear, a blank feminine voice citing off voicemail options.

"You and Sherlock and all your little tricks." Molly blushed as Irene gave her another appraising look. She wondered why Sherlock had never mentioned that the Woman liked women.

"Yes, I would say we're quite similar." With one last lift of a brow, Irene turned away, listening intently to whatever message she was meant to receive. After a minute or so of contemplation she stood, stretching long limbs like a cat. "Well, let's get going. Lots of investigating to do. I say, it's a good bit of fun to be a proper detective for once, isn't it? Without that brooding arrogant smirk over our shoulder."

"He'll be back soon," Molly mumbled, walking to her closet to pick out her clothes for the day. She tried to resist the urge to scour for her best blouse. Irene would notice if she dressed differently. That would be awkward.

"Three months is hardly soon. We'll have our Surgeon caught before then." Irene tapped the phone against her lips before giving out a big, huffing sigh. "I guess there's nothing for it. I need you to listen to this voicemail. Tell me if it means something to you."

Molly had just decided on a multicolored, striped sweater and jeans when the phone bounced off her arm. She scowled and leaned to pick it up, all too aware of her thin pyjamas. "You just trust me with your messages? I thought you were supposed to be secretive."

"Well, it's only the one right now. I delete all my messages after I hear them. You'd be surprised the garbage I've received on that phone."

Molly tried not to watch the woman toying with the bits and babbles on her night table. Her phone buzzed with a message just as she hit the call button. She was forced to ignore it as the number rang through, answered immediately by the same robotic voice. She navigated the menu, found her way to the messages, and listened.

At first, there was silence. She thought maybe this was some sort of prank, which would be utterly ridiculous given the circumstances. And then she heard a thin breath crackle on the line, overlong and dramatic.

_Doctor, doctor. I need a doctor. Lovely lass, my Doctor. Always walking in dark corners. Beep._

Her face paled, the clothes clenched in her hand. She'd heard the voice before.

"Why would he leave you this message? It's… It's about me."

"It's hardly news that Sherlock and I have connections. If he's keeping an eye on Sherlock, he's likely keeping an eye on you too. And me, though I'm sure I'm much more slippery. I'm good at being invisible when I don't want to be seen."

"I don't believe that." The words are out before she can help it, dropped like a heavy and embarrassing weight on her floor.

"I'm glad you think so." Irene smirked at her, and then before her eyes, Molly watched her shrink away. Beautiful dominatrix lifted from the pale skin and in its place was a girl that could have worked at an office, or passed her on the street. Molly suddenly realized her blouse was buttoned all the way up, the dark shade less dramatic than she'd at first imagined.

"How did you do that?" She could be talking to a stranger if she hadn't seen the transformation before her own eyes.

"I'll teach you one day." Everything is different. Even her voice is softer, simpler. No power plays here. Molly feels as though she may be seeing something intimate, something secret.

"I don't think you could."

"Of course I can. Better check that message, sweet. Wouldn't want Sherlock worrying over you now would we?"

Just as she said something, Molly's phone buzzed.

Tell me about the case. I need to work. My mind rots in stagnation. –SH

She considered, remembering what he'd told her last night. There were several possible reactions he could have to the Surgeon's contact. Too many of them were not good.

Nothing important has turned up. I'll update you when it has. Have you spoken to Irene? –MH

Not Ms. Adler now, then? Careful with her, Molly. She's tricky. –SH

She's nice. How is treatment? –MH

Irene hummed at the quick responses, practically laughing at Molly hovering over her phone.

Boring. Can I come home? –SH

No. Sorry. –MH

He didn't respond for the rest of the day. She and Irene walked along the streets where she'd dragged Sherlock not too long ago. The memory of his smooth suit and blank face battered against her heart. More than once she had caught Irene's inquisitive stare before the woman glanced away. Molly always had worn her thoughts in the open. And right now, this was a symbol of all the things wrong.

Irene knew the streets better than she ever did. Within an hour of starting their search they had cornered a jittery fellow who Molly had recognized from one of her turns searching for Sherlock. She'd noticed he stood in front of the same store, vacant eyes flitting about. Irene had stepped back and watched Molly expectantly. It took a moment for her to realize the woman was waiting on her to question the boy.

"Um. Right. Right." She breathed deeply, calming her nerves. "Right. Ok. So, there was a man here a while ago. He hung about for a while. Tall fellow, blond hair. Um, bit stocky? Big nose?"

"Ma'am, you've just described a dozen or so guys wond'ring 'round this street." The boy's eyes were too wide, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips every other word. "I aren't no squealer now. I aren't lookin' to rat nobody out."

"We aren't the police, dear. She cuts up corpses for a living, and I beat men." Irene paused, and with a breath the dominatrix was back. The man in front of her cowered against his corner.

"Now, try to concentrate here. Have you seen the man I just described? Tall, blond, stocky. Big nose."

"That's really not much t' go on, ma'am." This time she's inclined to believe him.

If her arms hadn't have been full of Sherlock Holmes, and her attention hadn't been on forcing her way past whatever drunken slurs were tossed her way, she may have remembered the man's face. He'd counted on that anonymity. He'd counted on her desire to never have been on that street.

"We have a message. If you listen to it, you may recognize his voice. This is important, you hear?"

The boy just nodded. Molly fumbled with her phone, pressed on the recording of the man's voice. The message played, each gravelly 'Doctor' a chill down her spine. When the message finished, she knew the boy recognized the voice. Pale faced, tight lipped, hands suddenly tucked into his pockets.

"No ma'am. Don't know who that fella is. Go on now, outta here." He waves them on, but neither woman moves. Irene's seen it too. Of course she has.

"I don't think so. Who is it?" Irene's voice is sharp.

"Just a janitor, Miss. Just a janitor comes by some time for some stuff. He never bothers no one. Just does his stuff and leaves." The boy tries to scurry further back. "Works at the home up the road. Nice fella."

Molly fears for a moment that Irene may slap the boy, but she doesn't. Instead, she draws her shoulders back and smiles coldly. A photograph of a broken girl lingers in Molly's memory, and she appreciates Irene's strength in the moment. The strength carries them through the next few stops. One stop to find out the janitor in question was not in that day, another stop by his apartment to find he hadn't been home in weeks.

Dead end.

Dead ends were frustrating.

That night, after Irene had parted and she struggled through dinner, she thought of another question. It stood out among the others that flurried around her mind. So many questions, but one repeated. Not until after she was showered and ready for bed did she pull out her phone again. He hadn't messaged her during the meetings. He'd probably talked to John.

What battle? –MH

How was investigating? –SH

You didn't answer my question. –MH

You didn't answer mine either. –SH

She huffed against her pillow, thudding her head back onto the bed. He could be so stubborn. She knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to derail her questions, get her talking about the case so she'd forget she'd asked him.

Heard you were a good detective today. –SH

Had Irene told him?

No, it was John. He's kept an eye on you for me. –SH

Surely he has better things to do. I can handle myself. –MH

You went to take him on by yourself. Not smart. –SH

Not take him on. Just interview him –MH

She sighed. He would never answer her question. He'd waited to answer her first one. He'd probably only caved because she'd been the one to find him. Or some other reason he'd convinced himself that he owed her.

She slept, and dreamed of soft kisses and cigarette smoke. She falls asleep too soon to read the next message. It didn't light her screen until several hours after her last message sent. It was only one word.

Existing. –SH


	15. Chapter 15

**Blue Sunday**

Molly counted each of the 90 days Sherlock was gone. His messages grew more and more cryptic, shorter with each passing day. She'd hoped that with treatment, he might open up. Then she'd remembered that he had done this before, recovered before, and he would remain the same Sherlock Holmes he always was. The knowledge both soothed and aggravated her, depending on the mood she was in that day.

As the date approached, she and Irene were no closer to finding the Janitor, as they had taken to calling him. They'd found out plenty about him. His name was Jackson Bones. Before that, it was Bo Jackson. Before that it was Joseph Baker. It appeared he did not vary in his chosen aliases by much. He moved here recently, took holidays often, and was absent from work more often than he was there. The only reason they kept him was his jokes and the fact his medical history kept him from better work.

He gave the appearance of a bumbling idiot wherever he went. Everyone they questioned firmly stated that it was impossible for him to do whatever they were investigating. Every time one of them claimed "He was just too nice," Molly watched Irene's jaw tighten.

Between every visit, Molly found the dominatrix at her flat more and more often. She pretended not to notice cold blue eyes lingering on her while she made her morning coffee, or the not-too subtle offers for dinner. The Woman had become more comfortable around her as they continued investigating together. Less often were the slinky dresses and pencil skirts, replaced by hoodies and jeans. The perfectly pinned hairstyles faded into soft falling curls. The sharp smiles and teasing melted into honest contemplation and gentle reflections.

The first time Molly had been aware that Irene's crush had moved beyond the physical realm had been a shock. They had been scouring over a map of the Janitor's movements, marking every dealer he had tested before he'd settled on Sherlock's, when Irene had breached a subject of personal importance.

"She was getting an art set for her birthday." Irene didn't look up from her section of the map, marking a red x as she paused between thoughts. "She was very much an artist and I just loved to spoil her with it. Our parent's always wanted her to go into something more practical. They insisted they'd have at least one conventional daughter, but she was every bit the rebel as I was. So I'd bought her an art set."

Molly was silent too long, and she watched as Irene receded back into her shell of mysterious allure. Just as the time she'd watched Irene drop the Dominatrix and pull it back up, it was as though the person that Irene really was wisped away into a screen of smoke. Blurred and obscured until Molly wasn't sure she'd really seen her in the first place.

"What was your sister's name? I don't think either of you have ever spoken of her name."

Irene only stared at her for an eternal minute before she answered. "Margot. Her name was Margot."

"It's a lovely name."

"He's always present for you, isn't he? Even when he's not."

Molly was surprised at the tone. "What do you mean?"

"Earlier. You spoke as if he were here, as if he could hear your assessment of my sister's unspoken identity."

"Sorry. It's just, I'm used to working with him. When I do stuff like this, it's hard to remember he's not in the room."

Irene turned to her, and she was taken aback by the flicker of something warm in her expression. Nothing more was said, but it wasn't long after that the woman left, carrying her half of the evidence into the chilly London air. The interaction was one that bounced around inside her head, a quiet puzzle trying to work itself out.

For the next few days, Irene was clipped in conversation with Molly, leaving as soon as they ended their investigation at sundown. Even Irene's occasional picking at her many jumpers or her slouchy pants had been replaced with smothering silence. Difficult as it was, she allowed the woman to come around on her own, and used the quiet to concentrate on their case.

The day Sherlock got out of rehab, Molly was surprised to find that neither Irene nor Sherlock had showed up at her flat. Or her work place. Her phone did not light with texts, except for one from Mary that simply read 'Safe.' She'd been relieved to hear it, but as the hours wore on she grew restless. Maybe Irene had gone to check on Sherlock? Maybe the two had decided to continue their investigation without her. Maybe whatever she had seen in Irene's expression had been a trick, and she'd been deduced again and found lacking.

Her leads stalled without anyone to carry on with her. She wasn't foolish enough to go after the man alone, and any attempt to gather more information about him would simply put her in danger. She'd found time between work and her extra-curriculars to take up self-defense, but she wasn't confident enough to put herself in danger. So she spent her first restful hours after work tracing over the lines she and Irene had drawn, contemplating whether she should text Sherlock.

She awoke, face pushed against wrinkled paper, to the frantic buzz of her phone on the counter. The vibrations rocked the table, jolting her mind to wakefulness. She glanced at the screen just in time to see the MISSED CALL flash in bright text, Mary's name under the phone symbol.

She'd missed four messages, sent over the last hour. Sometime in her sleeping, she'd missed another two calls.

Molly, it's important that you answer me. I need to tell you something. –MW

You're going to wish you'd have answered me. –MW

Pick up. Quickly. Before he tells me not to say anything. –MW

Oi, you are the worst with timing. –MW

Molly quirked an eyebrow, dialing the woman's number. Just as she lifted the phone to her ear she heard the swing of her door open. It's been months since someone has picked her lock. And she knew only one person who would be able to.

"It's too late now, he's sworn me to secrecy." Mary's voice crackled on the other side of the line, but Molly was already staring at intense blue eyes buried under dark curls.

"They claim I'm better now." She hasn't heard the depth of his voice in too long.

He looks healthier. They made him eat at rehab. She wondered if he enjoyed the food. She'd never thought to ask him those kinds of questions. What had he eaten? Did he get any visitors? She'd known that John had gone to visit him once, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to it. Had Lestrade gone to see him? Had Miss Hudson? Did he sleep well? She had assumed not, but there were no deep circles under his eyes. Suddenly, she felt inadequate, as though she had insisted on poking his insecurities at all the wrong times.

"Molly, are you there?" She hears Mary this time, her hand still clenched around the phone.

"Oh, sorry Mary. I've got to go. I'll call you soon."

"Good luck, dear." And then the line is dead.

"You weren't bad before. You just needed some help."

"I wasn't good."

"No one is good." He gives her a peculiar stare at this assessment, but moves around her to look at the stacks of papers on her table.

"You sound a lot like Mycroft sometimes, you know." He picks up her map, chuckling when he saw the smudge left from her drool. "Although I doubt he drools on his research."

She doesn't say anything, just watches him. The air is uncomfortable between them, the memory of him sagging in her arms suddenly as fresh and as painful as the day it happened.

"Her perfume is everywhere." He mumbled it, but she still heard.

"I assume you've seen her today. I didn't expect to get kicked out of the detective work so quickly after you got back." Even to her own hears she sounds ridiculously annoyed.

"Oh no. I've seen her, but I've been told that under no uncertain terms am I to interfere with your little party."

"My party?" Her cheeks heated, her fidgeting hands stilled. "Oh, like I'm off having fun looking for the murderous madman who's after me? Yes, let me tell you about it."

Being Sherlock, he simply stared at her with thinned lips, eyes trying to drill a hole through her. To her surprise, he deflated before he looked away, hands swinging own by his sides as he tossed the map down.

"Yes, I suppose party was the wrong word."

"Bit of an understatement." She noted that his shoulders filled out his jacket again, though not nearly as well as it had before all of this had started. "So, how does it feel to be back?" She asks, perhaps too quietly to be as upbeat as she wanted. He's already pacing around her dining room.

"If you're asking if I'm planning on hauling off on another binge, I do believe I'm beyond that now."

She bites back the retort on her tongue. Pointing out how he'd been wrong before would not make him any more willing to talk to her. A hundred questions whizzed around her head, but she couldn't bring herself to ask any of them. She'd just settled on asking if he wanted some tea when he turned back to her, slowing his hurried steps. His hands move first to his pockets, then ruffle through his hair, gaze flitting between her and the door. She's reminded of a deer about to dart.

"Molly. I've never…" He takes a deep breath. Suddenly, she doesn't want to hear what he has to say.

"Do you want tea?"

He ignores her, moving closer to the spot her feet grown into, as if her legs have grown roots into the foundation of this section of flooring.

"I don't love people. I won't love you." The words cut deeply, but she doesn't tear up. Even as he moves towards her, close enough that she can smell the smell of the cigarettes he's not supposed to smoke. "It's dangerous and selfish and wrong for me to try."

She thinks maybe he's going to give her another heartbreaking kiss on her cheek. Maybe he's going to smile at her in that way that makes her think his heart is breaking, even if there's hardly evidence he even has one. There's the same sadness, ever present beneath his arrogance.

"Stop."

And he does, but he's still staring at her with those brilliant eyes.

"I can't live without you, Molly Hooper. And I can't die to save you."

The words knock the breath from her.

He doesn't make another move towards her, only stands too close for her too clear her head.

"What can I say, Molly? What do I do?" It's not the first time she's heard him at a loss, but it's the first time the confusion has concerned her.


End file.
